083 CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (3)

Rain & Rice Fields: A Journey Through the Heart of Cambodia

CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (3)

1,336 Kilometres – 23 Days

July–August 2016

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VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

PROLOGUE

Cambodia arrived like a whisper on a dusty road —a border, a stamp, a dirt track dissolving into green. Children’s voices rose from behind banana leaves, monks drifted through morning light, and the Mekong moved with the patience of centuries. Here, life balanced on stilts above the earth, rice dried in the sun, and kindness met us long before we learned the words for thank you. 

 

Leaving Laos, Entering Dust - Maung Khong, Laos to Stung Treng, Cambodia (100 km)

Crossing the last stretch of Laos felt like leaving a gentle friend behind. “I feel quite emotional leaving Laos,” Tania murmured as we rolled toward the border, the morning soft and forgiving. At the border, an unofficial $2 exit fee vanished into the border officials’ pockets, but we claimed poverty, and a long wait later, our passports were stamped. Next, we scurried off to the Cambodian border, where officials charged a dollar for not having a yellow vaccination card and five extra dollars for the visa bureaucracy.

Beyond the border, the world opened into a quiet countryside of red dust and scattered wooden shops. The dirt road was kind, the air warm, and the small stores along the way kept our bottles full. Tania exchanged her last Lao kip at a petrol station—an unlikely but welcome stroke of luck.

Stung Treng appeared in a haze of heat and market noise. We found an ATM dispensing only US dollars, then a guesthouse with no water, then another with just enough comfort to collapse into. The day ended with the familiar exhaustion of border crossings—dust in our hair, hunger in our bellies, and the sense of stepping into a new chapter.

 

The Long Road to Kratie - Stung Treng to Kratie (140 km)

We left Strung Treng far too late for such a long day, stopping to exchange money, popping into a pharmacy, and taking loads of photos kept us busy for most of the morning. Only thirty kilometres in did the urgency hit: we needed to move.

The road south was a ribbon of rural life. Women in bright pyjamas sold steamed duck eggs from roadside stands—houses perched on stilts above the dust, hammocks swaying beneath them like slow pendulums. Children shouted “hello!” from behind banana plants, their voices carrying across the fields. Invitations to share meals drifted toward us like warm breezes, but the headwind pushed back, reminding us of the distance still ahead.

Storm clouds gathered. Roadworks slowed us. By the time we reached the Kratie turnoff, the sky cracked open. We sheltered, waited, and when the rain finally eased, darkness had already fallen. We rode the last stretch by the glow of our headlamps, dodging potholes and puddles, arriving soaked and relieved at a riverside guesthouse. The shower washed away the day’s grit, but the memory of that long, wet ride stayed with us.

 

By morning the Mekong carried us upriver in a small boat, its surface smooth as brushed silk. We searched for the elusive Irrawaddy dolphins, and when they surfaced—rounded heads, soft breaths—it felt like witnessing a secret.

They are nearly blind, the guide told us. Tiny eyes, no lenses. They sense the world through sound and shadow. Their population is fragile, scattered across rivers and estuaries from the Ganges to the Mekong. Watching them rise and disappear into the brown water felt like watching time itself—ancient, endangered, and impossibly gentle.

 

The River Trail Kratie → Stung Trang (89 km)

Leaving Kratie, we chose the river trail over the main road, and it rewarded us with a day of pure rural poetry—houses teetered on stilts above the floodplain, their wooden steps worn smooth by generations. Oxcarts creaked along the path, children skipped to school, and women pedalled bicycles laden with vegetables.

Rice dried in the sun. Bare-necked chickens darted across the dust. Fishermen cast nets into narrow rivers, their silhouettes framed by morning light. Vendors sold sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, and sugarcane juice dripped down our chins.

By afternoon we reached the ferry—a wooden platform drifting across the Mekong—and crossed to Stung Trang, lulled by the slow rhythm of river life.

 

Fields Without End -Stung Trang to Kampong Thom (97 km)

From Strung Trang we turned inland toward Kampong Thom, leaving the river behind. The landscape widened into vast rice fields, green as emerald cloth. Children stared at us with shy curiosity; even the stray dogs seemed startled by our presence.

Rubber plantations stretched in regimented rows. Cassava fields rippled in the breeze. Signs pointed toward ancient Khmer ruins hidden somewhere beyond the horizon. Dust-covered artisans carved statues for temples; their hands white with stone powder.

It was a day of quiet pedalling, the countryside unfolding like a long exhale.

 

A Day When Nothing Happened (Except Everything Did), Kampong Thom to Kampong Kdei (89 km)

A day when “nothing happened,” except everything did. Monks in saffron robes collected alms. Women ploughed fields with oxcarts. Traders pushed carts stacked with wooden furniture, baskets, and improbable loads of live chickens.

Children cycled to school with astonishing balance—tiny legs pumping, friends perched on handlebars or rear racks. Watermelon stands and coconut juice stalls offered sweet relief. By evening, we reached Kampong Kdei, where a surprisingly comfortable guesthouse awaited us.

 

The Ancient Bridge - Kampong Kdei to Siem Reap (64 km)

We rolled through the morning market, weaving between vendors and curious stares. Soon after, the ancient Kampong Kdei Bridge appeared-an 11th-century marvel of laterite and stone, once the longest corbelled-arch bridge in the world. Now bypassed by the highway, it remains a quiet relic of Khmer engineering.

The road to Siem Reap was lined with bamboo-cooked rice, fruit stalls, and herds of cattle. Fifteen kilometres out, temple ruins began to appear like ghosts in the trees. By afternoon, we reached the city, ready for rest, repairs, and a few days of stillness.

 

Stillness in Siem Reap

Two days of errands and small pleasures. Tania explored Angkor’s ancient stones while I tended to the mundane: laundry, bike service, camera repairs. The circus surprised us—ingenious, intimate, full of heart. Cambodia’s creativity shone in that small tent.

 

Across Tonle Sap – on a boat to Battambang

The boat across Tonle Sap was slow, old, and charmingly unreliable. It sputtered, broke down twice, and carried empty beer cans beneath the driver’s seat. But the floating villages were unforgettable—schools, shops, police stations, all drifting on the water. Children steered boats before they could walk. Life here was buoyant, precarious, and utterly unique.

A crocodile farm floated ominously among the houses. We shuddered at the thought of escapees.

By the time we reached Battambang, our backs ached from the wooden benches, but the night market revived us with food and colour.

 

The Bamboo Train – Battambang to Pursat (118 km)

We set off the next morning, soon reaching the “bamboo train” - more trolley than train—a wobbling platform on wheels that rattled through the forest. We laughed the whole way.

Back on the bikes, the road south offered familiar scenes: rice paddies, friendly children, pottery sellers, motorbikes stacked with pigs in woven baskets. Storm clouds gathered late in the day, and we raced the rain into Pursat, arriving just in time.

 

Flying Snakes & Coconut Ice Cream - Pursat → Kampong Chhnang (96 km)

“This is Cambodia, baby!” Tania exclaimed as we pedalled into a cloud of morning fumes. The road was alive with tuk‑tuks, buffalo, buses, and vendors selling steamed buns.

We devoured an entire watermelon at one stand, then coconut ice cream on bread, drenched in condensed milk. We declined the fermented ant larvae. Flying snakes—dropping from trees and slithering into the grass—were unsettling enough.

 

Into Phnom Penh (93 km)

Nine years on the road, and still the world surprises me.

We passed monasteries, rice planters, petrol sold in Coke bottles, and unidentifiable animals hanging from roadside branches. Trucks overflowed with chickens. Farmers led buffalo through rivers. English was scarce; smiles were abundant.

Phnom Penh swallowed us in Friday traffic—chaotic, dusty, relentless. We ducked and weaved through carts and markets until we reached the city centre and found a room good enough to stay a week.

The next day brought the sombre weight of the Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng. History pressed close. I visited the Canon store—bad news: the lens needed calibration in Singapore. I applied for a Thai visa and Tania bought a tent for our onward journey.

 

The Monastery at Takeo (77 km)

Leaving the capital was a battle through morning traffic. Flatbed tuk-tuks carried elderly women in wide hats; trucks towered with hay and passengers. Tania grinned through the chaos: “This is Cambodia, baby!”

We visited the Phnom Tamao Wildlife Rescue Centre—6,000 acres of forest sheltering elephants, tigers, gibbons, and sun bears. It was Tania’s world, and she lit up among the enclosures.

By evening, we reached Takeo and camped at a monastery. The monks offered the temple floor, a bucket shower, and electricity. Their kindness felt like a blessing.

 

The Road to the Coast — Takeo to Roadside Camp (104 km)

We rode past luminous rice paddies, coconut piles, and duck stalls selling every imaginable part of the bird. The closer we came to the coast, the hillier the land grew. Rain hammered down. I fixed a flat tyre in the downpour, longing for my Schwalbe tyres.

Near Kampot, a sign for “Café & Camping” appeared—a rarity in Cambodia. Two Turkish travellers welcomed us with coffee and stories. They were making a film about their journey. We camped under a canopy, grateful for the unexpected companionship.

 

Everything breaks at once - Roadside Camp to Sihanoukville (85 km)

Tania’s $20 tent collapsed overnight, leaving her in a sad, flat heap. We laughed, but it was disappointing—we’d hoped to camp more.

The road wound past oyster farms, fishing villages, and neon-green rice fields. My cheap tyre tore; duct tape held it together long enough to reach a town. My scandal broke too. Rain poured. It was one of those days where everything fails at once, and you keep pedalling anyway.

Sihanoukville was touristy but full of rooms. We scrubbed off the day, repacked, and attempted to fix the tent poles. No luck. I glued my sandal and hoped for the best.

 

Chasing the Bus

I rode the early bus back to Phnom Penh to collect my Thai visa. The tent shop refunded Tania’s money. I bought a tyre, tube, and gloves at the Giant store. The visa wasn’t ready until 17:00, so I spent the day wandering the mall like an expat.

When I finally collected the visa, I rushed to catch the return bus—only to find it had already left. A motorbike taxi gave chase, and we caught the bus kilometres down the road. Only in Cambodia.

 

Rain, Fatigue & Petrol Station Camping - Sihanoukville to Sre Ambel (98 km)

Rain hammered down in the morning, delaying our start. Tania felt unwell—lethargic, nauseous—but insisted on riding. The drizzle persisted all day as we retraced our route to Veal Renh and turned west toward Thailand.

By afternoon, the rain returned in sheets. We sought shelter at a petrol station, where the staff kindly let us camp under a canopy with lights and power. A humble but welcome refuge.

 

Into the Cardamoms - Sre Ambel to Andong Tuek (43 km)

There’s no sleeping late at a petrol station. Tania still felt ill, but we continued toward the Cardamom Mountains. The vegetation grew lush and wild.

At Andong Tuek, boats ferried travellers upriver to Chi Phat, a community-run eco‑tourism village once home to loggers and poachers. We found a rustic bungalow and booked a trek. Supper was rice, boiled cabbage, and goose eggs—simple, filling, forgettable.

 

Hammocks Under the House - Chi Phat Trek

Cambodia continued to astonish. Children half the size of cattle herded them confidently along the road. Five-year-olds rode motorbikes. Life here began early.

We set off with our guide into the Cardamom Mountains. My “fixed” sandal broke immediately, and the guide phoned a friend to fetch my sneakers from my panniers—delivered by motorbike, there is nowhere Cambodians can't reach by motorbike.

The forest was dense, fragrant, alive with insects and strange plants. Lunch was cooked over a small fire—rice and vegetables ready in minutes. By late afternoon we reached a family home where we hung our hammocks beneath their stilted house. Chickens and dogs scurried around the kitchen area. The family cooked pumpkin flowers, bamboo shoots, chillies, garlic, and wild greens into a delicious soup.

They lived with almost nothing—no electricity, no running water, no toilet—but with a grace and resourcefulness that humbled us. We fell asleep to the forest’s chorus.

Morning came with roosters and the smell of boiling water. The family offered us coffee—a luxury for them. After breakfast, we hiked back to Chi Phat, then caught a boat to the main road. Tania’s stomach cramps worsened. We hoped rest would help.

 

Illness in the Mountains - The Road to Koh Kong (43 km)

Tania woke with severe bloating, cramps, and nausea. She insisted on riding, and we climbed slowly into the Cardamom Mountains. The scenery was breathtaking, but worry shadowed the beauty.

At a riverside rest stop, we visited a small clinic. The nurse gave Tania two tablets and a place to lie down, but nothing improved. We flagged down a minivan to Koh Kong, where the driver dropped us at the hospital door.

The doctor diagnosed her illness quickly and prescribed medication. Relief washed over us both.

We found a room along the river and settled in, hoping tomorrow would bring strength.

 

The Border & the Bay - Koh Kong, Cambodia - Trat, Thailand – 100 km

Morning arrived with relief. The $2 medication had worked its quiet magic, and Tania woke with colour in her cheeks. We pedalled the short distance to the border, where tuk‑tuks, trucks, and buses jostled for position in muddy puddles. Cambodia spat us out in a flurry of noise; Thailand received us with a kind of gentle order.

The road to Trat was quiet, lined with bays and beaches that felt untouched by tourism. The air smelled of salt and wet leaves. Midday brought four Thai cyclists on a two‑day ride — cheerful, curious, eager to chat. Their presence felt like a small celebration of Tania’s recovery.

Rain found us again in the afternoon, soft at first, then insistent. By the time we reached Trat, we were soaked through. The monastery by the river welcomed us with a jetty — a long wooden platform above the mangroves, with a canopy, lights, and the soft hum of evening insects. The monks locked the gate behind us, pointed out the toilets, and left us to the river’s rising tide.

We cooked noodles, drank coffee, and watched the mangroves disappear beneath the water. It felt like the world was tucking us in.

 

Epilogue

When we left Cambodia, the red dust still clung to our panniers and the echo of “hello!” lingered in our ears. The Cardamom Mountains faded behind us, but their hammocks, their fires, their soft forest nights stayed close. Cambodia did not end at the border. It travelled with us —a gentle weight, a changed way of seeing.

082 CYCLE TOURING LAOS (3)

Pedals and Paddy Fields: Fourteen Days Across Laos 

Cycle Touring Laos (3)

966 Kilometres – 14 Days
26 June – 9 July 2016

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER

 

Prologue

There’s a unique anticipation that comes with embarking on a bicycle journey—an openness to the unknown, a readiness to embrace discomfort, and a hope that the road will reveal something new about the world and oneself. Our 14-day, 966-kilometre ride through Laos was more than a physical challenge; it was a passage through landscapes, cultures, and moments that would shape our memories and perspectives long after the final kilometre. 

 

Udon Thani, Thailand to Vientiane, Laos (80 km)

The morning air in Udon Thani was thick with the scent of smoky BBQ stands as we pedalled towards the border. Tania’s infectious smile mirrored my own anticipation as we pedalled toward the border, pausing only for fresh coconut juice—a simple pleasure that set the tone for the days ahead.

Crossing the Friendship Bridge over the Mekong was a symbolic threshold. The $30 visa felt like a ticket to adventure, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. French colonial architecture, the aroma of strong coffee, and the sight of baguettes stacked high in market stalls signalled our arrival in Vientiane. The city’s gentle pace was a balm after the rush of travel; we settled in, savouring green curry and cold Lao beer by the riverside, watching the city’s life unfold.

The next day, we wandered through ornate temples and the bustling morning market, absorbing the city’s blend of tradition and modernity. As the sun set, the riverside came alive—a communal celebration of food, conversation, and the simple joy of being outdoors.

The border crossing was more than a change of country; it was a reminder of how arbitrary lines shape lives and cultures. The warmth of Vientiane’s people and the city’s accessibility made me realise how travel by bicycle invites connection—every stop, every meal, every smile is an opportunity to engage.

 

Vientiane to Pak Ngum (71 km)

As we cycled out of Vientiane, we were drawn to Pha Luang, Laos’s most sacred monument. The legend of the Buddha’s breastbone, enclosed within its stupa, lent a sense of reverence to our departure. The road soon narrowed, flanked by rice fields and temples peeking from the forest. Children walked to school, their independence a testament to the safety and simplicity of rural life.

We stocked up on baguettes and bananas, noting the prevalence of new cars—a curious contrast to the rustic surroundings. The day’s ride was gentle, the scenery lush and welcoming. By early afternoon, we found bungalows nestled among green fields, a peaceful haven that encouraged us to slow down and appreciate the quiet beauty of the countryside.

Rural Laos offered a lesson in contentment. The absence of urgency, the rhythm of daily chores, and the hospitality of strangers reminded me that happiness often resides in simplicity.

 

Pak Ngum to Paksan (87 km)

Departing Pak Ngum came with a symphony of sights and sounds: mountains looming to the left, the Mekong glinting to the right, and villages where vendors offered dried and smoked fish with generous smiles. Children called “Sabai dee!” from stilted homes, and even the stray dogs seemed at peace.

We biked into Paksan with time to spare, grateful for the chance to shower and explore the riverside. The evening meal was a celebration of local flavours—a ritual that became a cherished part of each day.

The friendliness of the Lao people was striking. Their openness and curiosity made every interaction feel genuine, and I found myself reflecting on the power of small gestures—a wave, a greeting, a shared snack—to bridge cultural divides.

 

Paksan to Vieng Kham (90 km)

Rain greeted us at dawn, and we waited, hoping for a break in the weather. By mid-morning, the drizzle persisted, but we saddled up for the ride to Vieng Kham. The road grew muddier and more remote, with farmers tending cattle and planting rice in fields that seemed to stretch forever. Stalls sold petrol by the bottle and steamed duck eggs—a testament to resourcefulness.

Tania wasn’t feeling well, but refused to let it slow her down. The landscape became increasingly rural, and Google Maps proved useless—reminding us that some places remain untouched by digital mapping. Vieng Kham, though absent from any map, was sizable and welcoming, offering shelter and sustenance.

The day’s challenges underscored the unpredictability of travel. Yet, the willingness to adapt—to accept discomfort and uncertainty—became a source of resilience. I learned to trust the journey, even when the path was unclear.

 

Vieng Kham to Thakhek (108 km)

Thunderstorms were forecast, but the day dawned clear. Misty mountains framed the horizon, and the road wound through forests and villages where innovation thrived—two-wheel tractors transformed into multipurpose machines, and woven baskets carried the day’s harvest.

Markets were a feast for the senses, selling everything from unfamiliar meats to illegal wildlife. Rice planters worked knee-deep in water, their backs bent in silent endurance. Near Thakhek, we encountered the Great Wall of Laos—a geological wonder shrouded in myth.

A riverside hotel offered comfort, and dinner by the Mekong was a reward for the day’s effort.

The ingenuity of rural life was inspiring. People made do with what they had, adapting tools and traditions to meet their needs. The landscape, shaped by both nature and human hands, was a reminder of the delicate balance between progress and preservation.

 

Thakhek to Savannakhet (125 km)

Fatigue lingered from a restless night, but the road called. The terrain was undulating, and a steady breeze tested our resolve. Children filled the roads, enjoying school holidays, and temples stood as silent witnesses to centuries of faith.

A shortcut trimmed the route, but a minor accident left Tania bruised yet undeterred. Her resilience was a source of inspiration. Savannakhet welcomed us with convenient lodging near the night market.

Physical challenges are inevitable on a journey like this, but the true test is mental. The ability to push through discomfort, to find humour in mishaps, and to support each other made every setback a shared victory.

 

A day of rest in Savannakhet allowed for reflection and exploration. An early jog revealed ancient temples and colonial buildings, their faded grandeur hinting at stories untold. The dinosaur museum, though modest, offered a glimpse into the distant past, and a staff member’s guided tour bridged the language gap.

As we wandered the riverfront, I realised that rest days are essential—not just for the body, but for the mind. They offer space to absorb experiences, to notice details, and to appreciate the journey’s unfolding narrative.

 

Savannakhet to Muang Lakhonpheng (131 km)

Anticipating a long ride, we set out from Savannakhet early. The countryside was alive with activity—rice planting, children managing chores, and water buffalo grazing lazily. Villages provided respite, and the landscape was a patchwork of green paddies and colourful temples.

Lakhonpheng, though unmarked on maps, offered guesthouses. Our choice was less than ideal, but the discomfort was temporary—a reminder that not every day ends in luxury. Travel teaches flexibility. Plans change, expectations are challenged, and comfort becomes relative. The ability to adapt—to find joy in imperfection—is a skill honed on the road.

 

Muang Lakhonpheng to Pakse (112 km)

By morning, rain persisted, and we rode out under grey skies. A torn tyre was patched with duct tape, then replaced at a roadside shop—a stroke of luck that underscored the kindness of strangers. Pink water buffalo and mushroom vendors added colour to the journey, and the scent of wet, smoky wood mingled with damp earth.

By evening, we reached Pakse, hungry and grateful for a hot meal. The road is unpredictable, but generosity is a constant. The willingness of others to help—a spare tyre, a warm meal—reminded me that travel is as much about people as it is about places.

 

Pakse to Champasak (55 km)

The rain finally relented, and we cycled through vibrant rice fields and misty mountains. In Champasak, we stayed by the river and visited the Vat Phu ruins—a UNESCO World Heritage Site steeped in history. The ancient Khmer temple complex, set against Mount Phu Kao, was a highlight, followed by a sunset meal overlooking the Mekong.

Reflection: History is alive in Laos. The ruins, the temples, the rituals—they are threads in a tapestry that connects past and present. Cycling through these landscapes, I felt a sense of continuity, a reminder that every journey is part of a larger story.

 

Champasak to Don Khong Island (107 km)

A muddy track led to a ferry crossing and then south toward the Cambodian border. The Four Thousand Islands (Si Phan Don) beckoned, though a chaotic ferry landing nearly ended in disaster. Fortunately, all was well, and a riverside guesthouse provided comfort.

The next morning, we joined villagers at the market, sampling local snacks and enjoying the slow pace of island life. A boat trip upriver revealed riverside villages and fishermen at work—a fitting end to our adventure.

The islands were a place to pause, to savour the journey’s end. The rhythm of village life, the beauty of the river, and the camaraderie of shared meals made me grateful for the road travelled and the lessons learned.

 

Epilogue

Fourteen days and nearly a thousand kilometres later, Laos had left its mark: landscapes of green, resilient people, and a journey stitched together by the rhythm of cycling and discovery. The road was both a challenge and a gift—a reminder that adventure is not just about reaching a destination, but about embracing every moment along the way.

Final Reflection: Cycle touring in Laos was a lesson in humility, gratitude, and wonder. The country’s beauty lies not only in its scenery, but in its people, its history, and its ability to reveal the extraordinary in the everyday. As I look back, I realise that the actual journey was inward—a transformation shaped by the road, the rain, and the kindness encountered at every turn.

080 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (7)

Land of Smiles, Roads of Trials: Cycling North Through Thailand

080 Thailand (7)
2,488 Kilometres – 46 Days
19 May – 25 June 2016

MAP

O80 PHOTOS

081 PHOTOS
 
PDF

VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

 

Prelude

Thailand arrived not as a single moment but as a slow unfurling—rubber plantations giving way to temples, quiet lanes opening into markets alive with colour, and the steady hum of my wheels threading me deeper into a country that greeted me with curiosity, kindness, and the occasional bewildered stare. I crossed the border with the easy confidence of someone who had cycled thousands of kilometres, unaware that this stretch would test me in ways the road never had.

Ahead lay palm‑cake mornings, monsoon afternoons, unexpected festivals, and the gentle generosity of strangers. But woven through the beauty was something darker—an invisible mosquito‑borne twist that would reshape the journey entirely. Thailand would offer joy, challenge, and revelation in equal measure, and I pedalled into it with my usual stubborn optimism, not yet knowing how much I would need it.

 

 

Alor Setar, Malaysia to Hat Yai, Thailand (106 km)

Today was a remarkably quiet day on the road—so quiet, in fact, that not a single person asked, “How old ARE you?” I suppose my aura was emanating a clear message: “Don’t even think about it!” The ride to the border was smooth and uneventful, and the crossing into Thailand was a breeze. As per my usual routine, I picked up a local SIM card and withdrew some cash from the ATM before embarking on a 57-kilometre ride that whisked me straight into the heart of Hat Yai.

The area around the railway station was buzzing with life and offered plenty of budget-friendly accommodation. I settled on the Park Hotel, where I snagged a sizable room for just 350 Thai Baht (around $10). The place came equipped with Wi-Fi and a bathroom—perfect for recharging.

 

Hat Yai to Phatthalung (110 km)

Leaving Hat Yai, I took to the scenic rural routes that wound through the countryside, and to my surprise, the day unfolded into one of excitement and charm. Cycling through these quiet streets meant I was anything but invisible; my bike and I must have been quite the sight, especially as I navigated the busy Friday market. It was evident that I had strayed well off the typical tourist path; not only were the road signs exclusively in Thai, but my presence sent waves of curious stares through the crowd, particularly from the children, who seemed both fascinated and slightly terrified by the sight of this foreign cyclist.

The villagers warned me that reaching Bangkok by bicycle was nearly impossible—perhaps they thought I was biting off more than I could chew! Even the typically unruly dogs didn’t seem interested in giving chase, which was a relief. One charming highlight along the way was the “reading tree,” where a pair of communal reading glasses hung from a branch, inviting folks to stop and read in the shade.

My ride today took me past sprawling rubber-tree plantations, quaint villages, and a stunning array of temples. The weather danced between sunny intervals and sudden downpours, but I was fortunate to find convenient shelter just as the rain poured. By the time I rolled into Phatthalung around 5 p.m., I was soaked to the bone but happy.

I quickly found a place to rest and wasted no time heading to the night market. Never go to a night market on an empty stomach! I quickly learned that lesson as I indulged in an irresistible feast of street food. However, my excitement took a little hit when I discovered that it was a Buddhist holiday, which meant no beer was on offer. Oh well, sometimes you have to accept the little bumps in the road. Sigh!

 

Phatthalung to Thung Song (90 km)

It was one of those days when frustration spilt over; a crucial document I had dispatched via DHL from India stubbornly refused to reach Cape Town. More than two weeks later, it was still missing in action—nada, nothing, niks! My attempts to track it brought nothing but annoyance as the status read “number not activated.” Searching online for a DHL contact in Kochi felt like searching for a needle in a haystack. Customer Care was a bust, too. The only lifeline I had was to email Henry at Kevin’s Homestay, my previous stop. In the meantime, I scoured the area for a courier service to resend the document, since the nearest DHL office was a whopping 220 kilometres away in Krabi. Arghh!

The next morning, as I strapped on my helmet and adorned my handlebars with a flower garland, I pushed forward, cap pulled low, determined to keep pedalling north. Just before reaching the Krabi turn-off, something magical happened: a lifeline in my inbox! Henry not only sent me the DHL contact but also went to the post office, spoke with the staff, and unearthed all the details regarding my elusive document—including a new tracking number. There are truly remarkable people in this world!

To my astonishment, the document eventually reached Cape Town but remained stuck in limbo until I coughed up an additional fee. Seriously? I wondered how long they would have kept me in the dark about it! It’s hard to express just how grateful I was to Henry for his efforts.

Venturing off the typical tourist pathways, I realised English wasn’t widely spoken here. I felt it acutely at the hotel where communication was more of a charade. Still, Tung Song turned out to be a perfect spot to unwind for the night and sort everything out.

I spent a whole day in Thung Song double-checking that everything was finally in order. The highlight? A non-stop eating spree! My food journey started at the morning market and morphed into an all-day affair culminating at the lively night market. During the day, I stumbled onto an incredible festival! Devotees made their way to the temple, some with their cheeks pierced by metal spikes, all while dancers twirled energetically around them. And let’s not forget the fireworks that lit up the night sky—talk about a spectacle!

Yet, as the sun dipped lower, I felt an unwelcome weakness creeping in. A fever swept over me, and with it came aches and an upset stomach that nudged me into a spiral of worry—dengue fever, perhaps? The night turned into a restless battle, and by 3:30 AM, sleep finally found me. I awoke to a surprising racket at 6:30 and, to my relief, realised my fever had dissipated. How strange it was that such intensity melted away overnight!

Not feeling my best, I thought about ordering a simple pizza instead of my usual fried noodles, but that turned out to be a bit of a challenge. In the end, I surrendered to tradition and went for the classic fried noodles instead.

Later, I received news that my document from India had finally been traced and arrived at its destination. Hallelujah!

 

Thung Song to Surat Thani (110 km)

A fellow traveller once asked if cycle touring still ignited that spark after nine years. Amazingly, each new destination held the same thrill as my very first ride. Every day was an adventure, and, weather permitting, I wore a grin that made me feel like one of the luckiest people alive. Sure, cycling isn’t always a walk in the park—there are days filled with challenges and the inevitable saddle sores, but who doesn’t experience ups and downs in life?

After two restful days, I felt recharged. Not even the relentless rain or pesky roadworks could dampen my spirit. It was pouring, yet I clipped in my flashing lights to boost my visibility and zipped toward Surat Thani. I must have caught a tailwind because I was flying like never before! At last, I secured a cosy spot near the Route 44 and 41 intersections, allowing me a hot shower and dry clothes. What a glorious day of cycling it turned out to be!

 

Surat Thani District to Roadside Cottage (110 km)

Another 110-kilometre adventure waited for me on the winding roads from Surat Thani. The weather was surprisingly cool, with just a drizzle to keep things interesting. It felt like I was flying along the tarmac, even if in reality I was moving at my usual snail's pace!

Along the way, I encountered some truly lovely people. First, a friendly lady tempted me with her steamed palm cakes, and let me tell you—what a treat! They were fluffy, warm, and delicious. My next delightful stop was at a coconut vendor. This wasn't just any coconut; it contained a shell filled with jelly that was as refreshing as it was unique. To my shock, she refused any payment! Her kindness added a sweet touch to the day.

Finally spotted cosy chalets in the distance. They were reasonably priced and came with a small shop stocked with crisps, beer, and cup noodles—perfect for unwinding after a long day. I couldn’t help but smile; everything was falling into place.

 

Roadside Cottage to Chumphon (90 km)

The rain had been relentless throughout the night, and it was still drizzling when morning rolled around. Not one to linger, I donned my improvised plastic raincoat (cut down for easier cycling) and pedalled off toward Chumphon, eager for what the day might hold. Luckily, the heavens soon cleared, transforming the dreary morning into a beautiful day for biking.

Breakfast was a delight as I stumbled upon ladies once again peddling those heavenly steamed palm cakes. This wasn’t just a meal; it was a taste of Thai tradition, setting a bright tone for the day ahead. It’s no wonder Thailand is known as the "Land of Smiles"—the warmth radiated from every fruit seller and even from the plastic bottle collectors I passed by. Their smiles were infectious!

Chumphon awaited me with its Farang Bar, a little rundown yet surprisingly charming. The rooms were basic, but for the price, I couldn't complain—just the right kind of rustic charm after a long day.

During the day, I noticed a worrying wobble in my wheel, which led me on a mini adventure to find a bike shop. But first, food! In Thailand, the aroma of street food wafts through the air like a siren’s call, guiding you toward culinary bliss.

At last, I found a bike shop, but the language barrier turned my quest into a game of charades! Despite the communication challenges, I stumbled upon an astonishing spread of dim sum nearby. Who needs a perfect fix for a bike when you have a feast like that waiting to be savoured? Sometimes, unexpected detours offer the best memories.

It’s a curious phenomenon: walk into a shop in Thailand, and more often than not, the response is a resigned "Don't have." That was my first taste of the frustrations woven into the fabric of communication in this beautiful yet challenging foreign land. Sorting out my wheel problem became a small adventure in itself. After a bit of persistence, I finally tracked down a second-hand rim that I hoped would carry me reliably all the way to Bangkok. Along the way, I also found a keyboard for my laptop, which had decided to stop recognising the bottom row of keys... just my luck! I had really thought the Mercury retrograde was behind me by now.

The day wrapped up with a half-hearted attempt to clean the gooey road muck off my bike and tackle the laundry. My water bottles, which had transformed into tiny ecosystems filled with fungi, needed desperate attention. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the French couple next door. The lady had fallen ill with dengue fever, leaving her looking worse for wear. It was a stark reminder of the unpredictability of travel.

 

Chumphon to Thungwualaen Beach (20 km)

The ride from Chumphon to Thungwualaen Beach—just 20 kilometres—was a breezy journey to one of my favourite spots along the coast. Yet, as I arrived, I couldn’t shake off a sense of forlornness that hung over the place. Still, I managed to secure a cosy room for 300 baht. Ironically, the presence of mysterious droppings and a gnawed hole in the table suggested I wasn't the first guest to inhabit the space!

 

Thungwualaen Beach to Bang Saphan Beach (95 km)

Lethargy clung to me as I pressed on, passing countless inviting beachside accommodations, each just a stone’s throw from the water. The road was a tapestry of colourful temples, each one more ornate and colourful than the last. Among them, I marvelled at one that showcased a striking Buddha, sheltered by a multi-headed king cobra- it is said that the cobra protected the Buddha during his enlightenment.

My route hugged the coastline, the newly resurfaced road providing a smooth ride alongside a dedicated bike lane. Crossing numerous rivers, I passed fishing boats crammed together, a picturesque scene of commerce along the water's edge. The air was thick with the mouth-watering aroma of grilled fish and other culinary delights wafting from mobile carts, creating a hungry rumble in my stomach.

I reached Bang Saphan Beach earlier than expected, even with the hills adding a bit of a workout to the day—quite a rarity in the flat expanse of southern Thailand! I decided to linger a little longer, as I had plenty of time to reach Bangkok, where I was to meet Tania for a six-week touring adventure through Southeast Asia.

With some time on my hands, I laced up my running shoes and hit the beach for a jog. However, the stretch was relatively short, only about five or six kilometres. By early morning, the heat was already intense, and I could feel the locals' eyes on me, perhaps wondering why this mad foreigner was running when a perfectly good bicycle was nearby. After all, Thais typically gravitate towards indoor sports like badminton, table tennis, and the ever-popular Muay Thai. The sight of a person running would undoubtedly raise a few eyebrows!

 

Bang Saphan Beach to Prachaup Khiri Khan (93 km)

Emerging from a fitful night’s sleep, the exhaustion was no surprise after a relentless battle against a horde of cockroaches. The moment the lights dimmed, they sprang to life! Armed with a sandal, I embarked on a comedic chase—these little critters were quick, darting around like they were in a race.

As dawn broke, I found myself fleeing Bang Saphan with a gang of dogs hot on my heels, and it felt like I was leading a cartoonish escape, with cockroaches trailing behind for good measure! With my elbows flared and determination in my grip, I sped away on my bike, leaving the entire neighbourhood’s canines yearning for a piece of the action. Thankfully, a narrow path veered off, and they eventually lost interest.

The ride to Prachuap was nothing short of magical. The road wound gracefully along the coastline, with low-key bungalows peeking shyly behind bougainvillaea and fragrant frangipanis, creating a picturesque paradise. The only sign of life was often a solitary hammock, gently swinging between two palm trees, whispering of pure bliss.

This rural landscape was alive with colourful scenes: chickens dashing across the path, fishermen skilfully manoeuvring small dugout canoes, and temples rising majestically amidst the greenery. Snakes slithered in the underbrush as if competing for Thailand’s reptilian title—thankfully, I managed to dodge them all. The weather loomed dark and threatening, yet I pressed on, wondering whether I could outpace the brewing storm. Amazingly, I rode into my destination completely dry. Reflecting on the day, it was a win—avoiding dogs, snakes, and rain was a triumphant feat, though I still had a beef with those cheeky cockroaches. Seriously, I’m not making this up!

The next morning greeted me with bright sunshine—a perfect day for a jog. The promenade stretched for several kilometres, inviting me to soak in the scenery. I ran past the pier and a troop of monkeys frolicking around, eventually arriving at the steps of the Khao Chong Krachok hill temple. Staying at Maggie's Homestay was a delightful stroke of luck; not only was it incredibly affordable, but the atmosphere was warm and welcoming. Consequently, I decided to linger for another day, especially with rumours circulating about impending torrential rain.

 

Prachuap Khiri Khun to Khao Sam Roi National Park (70 km)

Chilling at Maggie’s Homestay was pure bliss, a delightful mix of laughter and shared tales from fellow wanderers. Most of them were long-term visitors, fully immersing themselves in Thailand's beautiful chaos. With a cold beer in hand, I wrestled with the idea of extending my stay for another day—tempting, but the call of adventure was too strong to resist. So, I hopped on my bike and set off toward the stunning Khao Sam Roi National Park.

As I pedalled down the scenic route, I encountered a charming family whose smiles made my heart sing—a mom, dad, and their three kids, ages one to six, all cycling together in harmony. What a sight! The mom was a real superhero, with the littlest one in a baby seat on her handlebars while the middle child was on the back of her bicycle. Dad was riding confidently in a recumbent bike with the eldest, and I couldn't help but tip my hat to their adventurous spirit. That’s family bonding at its most inspiring!

Continuing along the serene riverside, I stumbled upon a quaint little spot that beckoned me for a break. Without hesitation, I followed the path to the legendary Phraya Nakhon Cave. Reaching it was an adventure in itself: cycling to the shore, hopping on a boat to navigate around the headland, and then hiking up a steep path that promised breathtaking views. When I finally stepped inside the cave, I was greeted by a stunning temple that would have looked even more magical with sunlight streaming in. Unfortunately, I arrived too late for that majestic display.

 

Khao Sam Roi National Park to Cha-Am (80 km)

Dragging myself out from under the luxurious white linen sheets was an unexpected struggle, especially considering I rarely find such comfort on my travels. In Thailand's sweltering heat and humidity, who needs blankets, right?

With my African beats blaring, I launched into the hills of the National Park, my spirit soaring. I debated spending the night in Hua Hin, but the prospect of Cha-Am offered me a pleasant detour. Initially, I thought about skipping it, but knowing Bangkok was just two days away kept pushing me forward. Plus, I had a tick to contend with—though the risk of tick-bite fever seemed low, I wasn't keen on those little pests taking residence with me. And the whispers of rabid dogs in the area only added another layer of discomfort to my journey.

 

Cha-Am to Samut Songkhram (90 km)

The ride from Cha-Am to Samut Songkhram unfolded like a beautiful tapestry, colourful and alive with sights and sounds. As I pedalled through the varied landscape, I found myself enchanted by the charming food and drink stalls that dotted the route. Each stop was a little adventure, with tantalising smells wafting through the air—crab fishing was clearly the day’s highlight, as nearly every vendor had succulent cooked crab on display.

The road was well-maintained, complete with a dedicated cycle lane, making my journey not just safe but utterly enjoyable. Despite the blistering heat, I arrived in Samut Songkhram early, feeling exhilarated yet exhausted. My first stop was Hometown Hostel, a great spot that welcomed me with modern air-conditioned dorms, pristine bathrooms, and staff who greeted me like an old friend.

Once I unpacked, I couldn't resist the allure of the markets, already pulsating with activity. Samut Songkhram is home to the unique railway market, where vendors set up shop right on the tracks. It’s a wild sight—canopies swiftly dismantled whenever a train approaches, only to have everything reassembled like magic once it passes.

 

Samut Songkhram to Bangkok (90 km)

One of the greatest joys of cycle touring is discovering the hidden gems of rural life, especially in a lively city like Bangkok. As I navigated the tranquil outskirts, I was amazed by the serenity of the rivers and canals, where people lived and thrived alongside the water. Longtail boats served as makeshift taxi stands, and I encountered fascinating characters along the way—a broom-and-feather-duster salesman, an elephant carer—but our conversations were brief yet memorable.

However, around midday, the joyous ride took a sharp turn. An unsettling fever hit me like a freight train, wrapping my body in a heavy shroud of aches—from my hair follicles to my ankles. My energy evaporated, but I clung to my mantra: "I’ll reach my destination if I keep moving forward." The last 20 kilometres felt like an endless torment, and I resorted to counting the kilometres to distract myself.

As if battling my own body wasn’t enough, the traffic chaos in Bangkok was relentless—construction of a new Skytrain turned the streets into a maze of frustration. When I finally arrived, I made a beeline for my old go-to guesthouse—only to find it had vanished without a trace. Depleted, I accepted the first available room, collapsing onto the bed, trembling and violently ill.

In the days that followed, my condition took a turn for the worse. I learned the hard way about dengue fever—a mosquito-borne affliction that brought along a suite of wretched symptoms: high fever, relentless body aches, debilitating headaches, and nausea that made eating seem like a cruel joke. It felt as though even the slightest movement sent shockwaves through my body, each pang delivering a reminder of my vulnerable state.

Medications available managed only the symptoms, so I stocked up on painkillers and anti-nausea tablets, hoping for a reprieve. I lost track of time, drifting in and out of sleep, feeling as if I had succumbed to a cruel twist of fate. When I finally woke, I realised I was a shadow of my former self, having lost half my body weight in the process. Despite the silver lining of weight loss, I wouldn’t recommend dengue fever as a weight loss program to anyone.

With Tania’s arrival just days away, the irony was not lost on me—I was too weak to even walk to the corner store, let alone embark on a thrilling cycle tour across Southeast Asia. At that moment, the exhilarating journey I had promised her felt like a distant memory, overshadowed by this unexpected twist in my adventure.

 

Tania’s Arrival in Bangkok

The day Tania arrived, I felt a surge of energy—I was finally on the mend after battling dengue fever for far too long. Breakfast, which had been a struggle, went down smoothly, and I even indulged in a much-needed cup of coffee.

Tania arrived around midday, and I was immediately impressed by her packing prowess; she had expertly crammed all her essentials into a bike box and a single other bag. I could tell right away that she knew her stuff.

With my health improving, I was eager to get back into cycling shape and embark on our Southeast Asian adventure. Before hitting the trails, we decided to explore Bangkok’s bustling streets. Wandering through quaint pedestrian lanes, sampling street food, and immersing ourselves in the city's chaos felt like the perfect way to reconnect with the world outside my illness.

 

Bangkok to Historic Ayutthaya (83 km)

After two days of city exploration, my excitement to leave Bangkok bubbled over—my rundown accommodation was starting to wear on me. Fortune smiled upon us as we were able to set off earlier than expected; the weather was lovely, and the traffic was surprisingly manageable.

Cycling out of Bangkok is famously tricky, but Tania navigated it with ease, as we made our way through the urban jungle and onto a serene rural path along a canal. The scenery transformed as we pedalled past lush green rice paddies and charming eateries that beckoned with the promise of delicious local dishes.

As we approached Ayutthaya, the ancient capital of the Kingdom of Siam, the anticipation grew. We stumbled upon a picturesque old wooden schoolhouse, nestled in expansive grounds, that would be our cosy refuge for the night.

The following day was nothing short of magical. We spent hours wandering among the hauntingly beautiful ruins that tell stories of a glorious past. Founded around 1350, Ayutthaya was once the thriving heart of Asian trade, strategically located between China, India, and the Malay Archipelago. By 1700, it was the world’s largest city, bustling with a population of a million. Yet, its splendour was abruptly shattered in 1767 when it fell to invading Burmese forces, leaving behind a poignant echo of its history.

As we strolled through the sprawling ruins on the UNESCO World Heritage list, I felt a profound sense of privilege to witness such a testament to human endeavour and resilience. Each crumbling temple and toppled statue whispered tales of glory and loss, making our exploration truly unforgettable.

 

Ayutthaya to Lopburi (63 km)

As we kicked off our second day of cycling under a moderately overcast sky, the air was warm, hovering between 30 and 34 degrees Celsius. A perfect day for adventure awaited us in Thailand, a land brimming with captivating sights. Our journey began with a unique encounter at an elephant kraal. The massive elephants, adorned in colourful, traditional garb, were busy preparing for a day of tourist rides with their devoted mahouts. As we pedalled by, I felt an overwhelming sense of admiration for these magnificent beings, a stark reminder of nature's splendour amid the chaotic city we had just left behind.

Next up was a wonderfully quirky temple, eccentric in its design, boasting a colossal dragon—or perhaps a dragon's tail—enveloping the entire property. Countless small paths guided us toward Lopburi, turning our ride into an enjoyable exploration. On our way, a warm-hearted local lady waved us down and offered a bag of bananas. Her gesture of kindness fuelled our spirits and carried us through the kilometres.

As we cycled through the countryside, it was nearly impossible to pass through villages without drawing curious glances. Locals, slack-jawed and shy kids, alongside watchful dogs, observed our journey, showcasing the friendliness and curiosity of the communities we encountered. Our route led us past towering Buddha statues, elaborately decorated temples, and lush bamboo forests, all while the irresistible scent of exotic snacks wafted from roadside carts.

Upon arriving in Lopburi, we were drawn to the charming Noom Guest House, where we quickly settled in and ventured out to explore the town's rich history. Lopburi is an ancient gem, filled with remnants of bygone eras within a short walk. Yet, woven into the fabric of this old city was the vivacious energy of everyday Thai life—and a lively troop of monkeys. Visiting the Monkey Temple was a highlight; it was fascinating to observe the similarities between their family dynamics and ours. I could have spent hours simply watching them play and interact.

Tania took to life on two wheels effortlessly, almost as if it were natural! No sooner had she washed her shirt than she had it strung up to dry, embracing every moment of our ride.

 

Lopburi to Pak Chong (103 km)

The morning air was thick with the smoky aroma of breakfast BBQs as we rolled out of Lopburi, a place that surprised us with its busy, lively atmosphere. We navigated through the city's limits, and once free of the urban sprawl, we found ourselves on serene farm tracks, weaving through the picturesque countryside, dotted with quaint hamlets. Even the stray dogs here seemed to understand the need for personal space, reacting swiftly to our authoritative “voetsek” and wisely keeping their distance.

However, our journey took an unexpected turn when a rural road spat us out onto a busy highway—quite the jolt after the tranquillity we had just enjoyed! Tackling the hilly terrain under the relentless midday sun was tough, but we pressed on. The grind of uphill pedalling eventually paid off as we raced down a steep descent into Pak Chong, hitting nearly 60 km/h and feeling the rush of cool air as clouds gathered overhead.

Arriving in Pak Chong marked the end of our day’s ride, especially as the sight of washing machines came into view—a welcome sight for someone like me who hadn’t done laundry since leaving Bangkok!

 

Pak Chong to Starwell Bali (107 km)

After a restful night in our cosy accommodation, we set off past numerous workshops crafting statues of Buddhas in all shapes, sizes, and colours. The air was infused with the sweet aroma of exotic fruits as we glided through quaint villages, where homes sat amid fluorescent-green rice fields, painting an idyllic picture.

One of the most delightful surprises of the day was stumbling upon an elephant patiently waiting for a ride at a bus stop—a truly unforgettable sight that could only happen in Thailand!

Once again, we found ourselves on less-travelled roads, meandering through lush farmlands until our path unexpectedly veered into a muddy trail. When it ultimately faded away, it left us with no option but to backtrack.

Opting to bypass Nakhon Ratchasima, we discovered a charming retreat of wooden chalets set amid greenery. It was the perfect invitation to unwind and savour the beauty of our surroundings.

 

Starwell Bali to Phimai - 60 km

"Did you see the weather?" Tania asked, her frown deepening as we stepped outside to face an unrelenting downpour. Just as quickly as it arrived, though, the rain dissipated, leaving behind a stunningly clear sky that promised an enjoyable ride to Phimai. We were eager to delve into the wonders of Prasat Hin Phimai, one of Thailand's grandest and most significant religious sanctuaries.

We found ourselves at the delightful Phimai Paradise House, a charming hostel with beautiful wooden floors and lofty ceilings—a perfect refuge for our adventures. Once settled in, the seductive allure of the ancient ruins tugged at our curiosity, and we couldn’t resist exploring.

Dating back to the 11th–12th centuries, Phimai was a vital hub during its heyday, and inscriptions on one of its doors revealed its roots in the ancient Khmer Empire. The fact that these temples were built a century before Cambodia's famous Angkor Wat fascinated me. Phimai stood proudly as one of the westernmost outposts along the Khmer Empire's sacred highway, a testament to a storied past. I felt an exhilarating rush of gratitude for our detour—this place was a hidden gem!

After soaking in the grandeur of the ruins, we hopped on our bikes and headed to Sai Ngam to meet the legendary 350-year-old Banyan tree. On our way back, we couldn't resist stopping at the night market, where we stumbled upon a delicious surprise: an ant salad that became a culinary highlight of the day!

 

Phimai was irresistibly charming, a tranquil village where time seemed to slow down. So, we decided to extend our stay by another day. The morning sun beckoned, and we set out for a jog, relishing the peaceful surroundings. But as if nature had a lesson for me, I realised I hadn’t fully recovered from dengue fever, which had sapped my energy.

The rest of the day turned into a blend of productivity and personal moments. I caught up on chores—organising photos, tackling laundry, and finally making those long-overdue phone calls. During my stroll, I encountered an inspiring local: a retired photographer, 78 years young, whose eyes sparkled with untamed passion for his craft. His impressive collection of antique cameras sparked a delightful conversation. He asked me to take a photo of him, framed by a self-portrait he had snapped 50 years earlier. In that simple moment, I was reminded that every corner of this world whispers stories waiting to be told.

Before I knew it, the sun dipped below the horizon, and it was time to dive back into the energy of the night market, where delicious aromas danced in the air.

 

Phimai to Ban Phai (119 km)

We set off early, invigorated by a blanket of clouds that made for easy pedalling. Our route wove through the heart of northern Thailand, unveiling picturesque rural landscapes where tiny villages peeked out from golden fields, each with a local temple and grazing buffaloes.

A dirt path led us to an extraordinary community of silk weavers. As we approached, the air buzzed with creativity; women worked diligently, hand-weaving silk threads with an artistry that transcended language. Although words failed us, their smiles spoke volumes as they welcomed us into their world.

As we meandered further, the scenery transformed dramatically. Beyond the tarmac, we found ourselves in a lively no-man's land, where villagers were busy harvesting gorgeous lotus flowers and seeds. Just before we reached Ban Phai, we stumbled upon a thriving bee farming operation. Vendors lined the streets, their stalls overflowing with golden honey and honeycombs—the sweetest of surprises!

Despite its small size, the quaint village of Ban Phai offered a surprisingly modern hotel, where we settled in for the night. Without hesitation, we ventured out to the mobile food carts, eager to indulge in our daily fix of steaming noodle soup, the perfect ending to a beautiful day of exploration.

 

Ban Phai to Khao Suan Kwang (115 km)

The night was a symphony of relentless rain, but by dawn, the skies cleared, revealing a stunning day ahead for our ride to Khao Suan Kwang. Not far into our journey, a sign caught our eyes: “King Cobra Village.” Intrigued, we veered onto a picturesque rural path, excitement bubbling inside us. The farm trails twisted and turned in perfect harmony, promising an unforgettable biking adventure. Yet my Google Maps had other ideas; it stubbornly stuck to "walk" directions, leading us through narrow back roads and the occasional backyard. At times, the route disappeared entirely, turning our ride into a delightful treasure hunt. Despite the confusion, I thrive on these unpredictable journeys, and this one was no exception.

As we pedalled through the lush landscapes, the sweet scent of tradition filled the air. Locals were drying thin strips of meat in the sun—known as "Pork One Sun," a cherished Thai delicacy—while others invited us to join their lunch spread. We couldn’t resist the warmth of their hospitality, and we enjoyed fleeting moments with the farmers as they tended their fields and buffalo.

Our anticipation for King Cobra Village was palpable, but reality struck when we arrived and found it was more of a tourist trap than a village. The cobras, their mouths sadly tied shut, were forced to perform for visitors. Despite this disappointment, the ride through the countryside was a feast for the senses, with nature's beauty all around.

As we rode on, we stumbled across a quaint “resort” that must have been a gem in its prime but now lay in ruins—its potential overshadowed by neglect. Later, we found a curious 24-hour establishment. Though it typically rented rooms by the hour, we managed to haggle a decent rate. Tania was taken aback by the state of our room, which featured only one massive bed. It was snug, but sometimes you just have to embrace the charm of the unexpected.

 

Khao Suan Kwang to Udong Thani - 68 km

Our ride to Udong Thani was a breeze—an easy and enjoyable day on the bike. Just when we thought the day couldn’t get any better, a watermelon vendor surprised us with a pre-sliced treat that was pure bliss. When she refused to take any money, we felt compelled to show our gratitude by purchasing 3-in-1 coffee sachets to share. It might not have equalled the value of her gift, but the thought mattered.

The scenery was nothing short of enchanting; butterflies danced around us as we glided past sprawling cassava and sugarcane fields. Along the way, we stopped at a serene monastery, snapped some photos, and exchanged a few pleasant words with the monks. Our next stop was a durian vendor, where Tania took a brave leap into sampling Thailand’s legendary yet controversial fruit.

Further down the road, we spotted Thai ladies fishing in expansive ponds, employing earthworms as bait but with little luck—perhaps the fish weren’t fans. Tania couldn’t resist joining in, but her fortune mirrored theirs.

As we approached the lively city of Udon Thani, we passed more monasteries and lakes with fishing platforms that looked much more promising than those at previous stops. We treated ourselves to a delicious local speciality: sticky rice cooked in bamboo tubes, known as kao lam in Thailand and lemang in Malaysia. The rich, bean-and-coconut-milk-infused flavour was a delightful end to our day.

Upon arrival in Udon Thani, we checked into the budget-friendly King’s Hotel, which boasted a cavernous double room complete with an en-suite While I had some pressing tasks, Tania was thrilled to stock up on hard-to-find supplies in Laos.

 

Udon Thani, Thailand to Vientiane, Laos (80 km)

Tania’s excitement was electric as we set off for Laos. “I can’t stop smiling!” she beamed, her voice brimming with joy as we rode past smoky breakfast BBQ stands, the aroma of grilled meats and spices teasing our senses. Eager to cross into Laos, we only paused once to refresh ourselves with the cool sweetness of coconut juice—a perfect antidote to the warm sun.

At the Thailand-Laos border, a $30 visa opened the gates to a new adventure. Crossing the Friendship Bridge over the mighty Mekong River was a moment to behold—a stark reminder of the contrasting worlds that lie on opposite sides of a border, shaped by complex geopolitical histories.

As we entered Laos, the influence of French colonialism became vividly apparent, especially in the architecture around us. The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of fresh baguettes and coffee, drawing me back to echoes of a past era. I withdrew a hefty 1,500,000 Laos kip, feeling as though my wallet might burst at the seams under the weight of the local currency.

The journey continued, and with each pedal stroke, I could feel the thrill of new adventures awaiting us in this beautiful land.

 

Epilogue

By the time I reached Bangkok, the road had stripped me bare—fevered, trembling, and suddenly fragile in a way cycling had never made me feel. Dengue fever arrived like a thief, stealing strength, appetite, and days I can barely remember. Yet even in that haze, Thailand held me gently: quiet guesthouse rooms, street vendors who smiled despite my weakness, and the slow return of appetite that felt like a small miracle.

When Tania stepped off the plane, her arrival felt like a turning point—a reminder that journeys evolve, and sometimes the road insists on rest before it allows you to continue. I emerged lighter, slower, but grateful, ready to trade solitude for companionship as we set our wheels toward Ayutthaya and beyond.

Thailand had given me beauty, challenge, illness, and recovery. It had taken something and returned something else. And as I rolled north once more, I carried both with me.